Agoloso Presents - Atondido Stories Agoloso Presents - Mama Mada | Page 222

Mama Mada Kith by Jo Be ll A word made scant by frequent use. I like it for its urgency and spit, for its necessity. I like it for its oldness, for its slingshot certainty. I like it for its plainness; for belonging to the Northern tongue behind my teeth. I like it for its fighting talk. The known. The tribe. Something I can recognise: something that recognises me. I am not who I think I am but who you know me to be. The Dancers On Graves by G e rald ine Clark so n gather at dawn, 21st June, by the large yew; limber up, leaning on the back ends of monuments and tombs; adjust bandeaux and legwarmers; yodel a little, do scales to loosen the chi. The relevant areas are corralled with ribbon, beginning with John Henry Frayn, father o f three , down to Dawn Mary Highgate, a friend to all. The usual routines, salsa, merengue, rain-dance, always come out altered on grass, especially if the going is soft. Some were children when they started; they say the day fits seamless into their year. And a lady of 90 (who never forgot the man who wronged her at seventeen) resplendent in furs, performs a perfect foxtrot. The Mercy Brigade sitting to one side, allocate marks for flirtatiousness, precision, grace. 217